


Debt

by markantony



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Era, Grantaire is a mercenary, Italian!Grantaire, M/M, Mention of Alcohol and Guns, Slow Burn, Will update the Rating and the Tags when I write more chapters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-07
Updated: 2017-10-06
Packaged: 2018-12-12 11:14:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11735919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/markantony/pseuds/markantony
Summary: Les Amis get to know Grantaire, a venetian mercenary looking for his fortune in Venice for unknown reasons. Eventually, he'll be at the service of Enjolras' wealthy family and maybe he will change his mind about this wretched man.





	1. The foreigner

**Author's Note:**

> GLOSARY:  
> Caço volete, lasciatemi solo - what the fuck do you want, leave me alone.  
> Biondini - blondies.
> 
> I haven't betaed this work, my mother language isn't english, so please correct my mistakes. Also, there are some spoilers in the summary of this work that aren't included in this first characters but hopefully will be in the next.  
> My Grantaire looks like a younger version of this man: https://68.media.tumblr.com/88cfd04f3df3041d02793c48d434f16d/tumblr_oigkk0MF4v1u92lkho1_400.gif

Enjolras crossed his arms on his chest to warm up and looked at his friend, occupied smoking a pipe. “Remind me again why we are walking by the _bassin de l'arsenal_ at midnight.”

“It's the fastest way to get home since our houses are near the bridge,” asserted Prouvaire. “Don't worry about the criminal I know you are worrying about. I know most of them.”

Enjolras sighed and continued walking forwards, leaving Prouvaire alone with his thoughts again. Frequenting places full of thieves, prostitutes, and the rest didn't guarantee the friendship of said people or protection from them but a blind young idealist as his friend was, he decided the good thing to do was to avoid advicing him on these matters. Maybe he was right, but being the youngest of all his friends he worried nonetheless.

All of a sudden they started hearing voices in the dark ahead of them, a group of men yelling at each other it seemed. Then, a grumble and a thud and steps distancing from the previous spot, where then they heard a low moan coming from the ground. Prouvaire and Enjolras approached the spot of the fight and saw a man laying on the ground, most likely the loser part of the fight. Prouvaire knelt down and grabbed the man's am, shaking him, while Enjolras stood and looked at the scene. “Is he hurt?”

“I don't know, he seems so, there's not enough light. Hey _monsieur,_ are you alright?”

“ _Caço volete, lasciatemi solo,_ ”growled the man in a harsh tone.

“That was italian, right?” Enjolras knelt down next to Jean Prouvaire, who currently was checking the blood stain in the hip zone of the stranger's clothes.

“Yes but I think my italian is a bit rusty and quattrocento-esque so I can't ask him what happened if that is what you are thinking right now.”

The man tried to lift his body from the ground and leant on his elbow and then on his hand until he was sat up and against the wall. “I can speak french. How can I be of service to you gentlemen?”

Prouvaire chuckled. “It is us who want to help you, what happened?”

“A group of bastard spaniards...” He stopped and brought his hand to his wound and let out a groan. “I'm not in the best condition, you see.”

Enjolras touched the man's forehead with gentleness. He was sweaty and had a fever. He was not Combeferre but could tell that it wasn't the result of alcohol but of the loss of blood. “He's ill, Jean. We must take him to my house?”

Prouvaire furrowed his brows and whispered. “Won't your parents give you trouble if you take a wound stranger home?”

“At this hour... Maybe they won't be there yet, but I'm not letting him die by the river. Come on, put your arm around our shoulders, sir. Can you stand up?”

Prouvaire and Enjolras helped the man stand and despite the complaining, he started walking with the two frenchmen under his arms. “I don't know you two, _biondini_ , but your help will be repaid.”

Enjolras shooed the man. “Now, concentrate on walking without loosing too much blood or fainting, we are close.”

When they arrived at Enjolras' house, the foreigner was moving automatically without knowing where he were. The house's butler helped Enjolras carry the stranger upstairs without making any question, as he was told to due to the fact that the young man's company was always questionable anyway.

They laid the man on top of the old coachman's bed when he was already unconscious. Enjolras only got to see his aspect now thanks to the light of the candles but he didn't pay much attention to his face, that would be for tomorrow.

“Monsieur Aguillon, could you please bring a doctor? My friend here is injured. And please, tell Chantal to bring hot water, clean cloths and some sheets.”

“Yes, sir.”

Enjolras was left alone with the man and started peeling off his worn out dirty clothes, his cape, vest and shirt, as well as his boots.

“Monsieur Enjolras....” Chantal, the maid, walked timidly into the room, seeing that his employer was unclothing a stranger man.

“Ah, yes, thank you. You can go to sleep if you want, Chantal. I'll take care of him and see the doctor when he arrives.”

“As you wish, monsieur. May I ask... Is he a friend of yours?”

Enjolras bit his lip, knowing what the maid meant. The company that he kept was foreign to them but didn't surprise them anymore. “Yes, he is. He was attacked and this place was the closest to where the incident happened.”

“Sorry, monsieur. Good night.”

“Good night to you too.”

At that moment, monsieur Aguillon arrived followed by the family's doctor who happened to live nearby. Another man that wouldn't ask much.

“Doctor Bouchard, thanks for coming at this hour. Please, come into this room. My maid has brought hot water and cloths but if you should need more, just ask.”

The doctor, a silent man as he was, sat next to the patient on the bed. Drops of sweat covered his body and head. He put on his glasses and started treating the man while Enjolras watched from a chair.

* * *

Grantaire opened his eyes at the sound of someone opening the windows. He didn't recognise the ceiling, the soft white sheets or the mattress. This wasn't his inn. He turned his head to see the person that woke him up but the light coming from outside blinded him.

“You are up! Sorry for the noise but I think the room needs fresh air. Can you sit up?” said the voice, approaching.

Grantaire sat up, feeling a piercing pain in his hip. He lift up his blouse – which wasn't his either – and saw his injury stiched and clean.

“Does it hurt?”

His eyes accostumed to the light and saw the man in front of him. Long hair in a ponytail, a blouse much like his and red trousers. His eyes were dark brown and his face.... _Madonna_ , he mumbled.

“No... not much.”

Enjolras looked at the other man as well. His dark curls a mess, his face full of sharp features, dark circles under those fair blue eyes, aquiline nose and a beard of a week if not more. His skin was bronzed in contrast with his much paler skin. His face was not one you'd see in a museum but it was a interesting face.

Chantal broke the silence. “I bring breakfast to you and your guest, monsieur.”

“Thank you, put it here at his feet.”

Grantaire nodded at the maid to thank her as well and turned back to Enjolras. “Who are you?”

“My name is... Sebastienne but please don't call me that. My friends call me Enjolras.”

“ _Sebastiane_ like the saint. You look alike if I dare say it, friend.”

Enjolras lifted a corner of his mouth. “Because you've met Saint Sebastian.”

“Yes, he is everywhere one goes in Italy. He is beautiful, slender, bold, a martyr, rebel, and french. You may even share blood with him.”

Enjolras sighed watching the strangers move his hands around talking of a saint. “Say you, what's your name?”

“Ezio Grantaire, but as you said, my friends call me just Grantaire. Is this your room? Isn't it a bit stoic? I have stolen your bed, I see. That girl must have been this inn's maid then.”

“Grantaire, this is not an inn, this is my house. Don't worry, you haven't stolen my bed either, this is my old coachman's. We don't have any currently so you can occupy it until you are well.”

Grantaire stared at Enjolras and clicked his tongue. “You're rich.”

“That my parents are, yes.”

“Enjolras. Your last name is...I must have heard it somewhere.”

“How long have you been in the city?”

“A month. I already consider myself parisian. And turkish. And spanish. A venetian is from everywhere. But I like it here.”

“The you might have heard my name...Well, nevermind, please, eat breakfast.”

Grantaire shrugged and started eating while Enjolras had a conversation with the butler. He thought the change of subject was sudden and suspicious but he wouldn't push, not yet. He had met the man a few hours ago and he had saved his life, he didn't want to push him away yet.

Then he remembered. “Where is my sword? And my handgun?”

Enjolras pointed out at the wardrobe. “I don't know why you go around with weapons like that and I didn't want them laying around in case my parents came in here.”

“I carry them because I need them for my job?”

Enjolras frowned. “What job?”

“Let's say I protect people for money.”

“And you kill people.”

“That too.”

“You are a mercenary.”

“That they call my job, although the name sounds better if you talk about the Then Thousand of Xenophon or a _condottiero_ , not me. I'm everything but glorious or epic.”

Enjolras closed his eyes slowly and touched his temples. “Monsieur Aguillon, put some clean clothes on a bag, three francs and some bread. Please Grantaire, be out of my house as soon as you finish eating.”

Grantaire pursed his lips. “Okay, I recognise that I'm not the most pleasant person to keep you company for my profession but you are talking from prejudices, not from knowledge my friends. I feel satisfied, you've saved my life and I still owe it to you. I always pay my debts. Still, if you don't want me here, who am I to wrong a beautiful creature? I hope I'll see you around.”

Enjolras stepped back and studied Grantaire standing up and getting dressed. He didn't regret saving him but his profession... He was a barbarian. 

Grantaire walked up to him with the hand on the pommel of his sword. He closed the distance between their faces and whispered in his ear: “Au revoir, monsieur Enjolras.”

 


	2. Defense

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They meet again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not beta-ed! Please, correct my mistakes.
> 
> GLOSARY:  
> Sti francesi ca no si tacciono - These french that don't shut up.  
> Porco Dio - (lit) filthy God. It's basically saying "fuck".
> 
> I will update soon!  
> See this gifs to see how I imagine Grantaire in the last scene: http://68.media.tumblr.com/bdb04a50a51bb98b0e944ef561ea89a0/tumblr_og52a0FKCj1vh75foo3_400.gif http://stvpormvndi.tumblr.com/post/153076624882/sammyjd-marco-bello-i-medici-masters-of

Everyone eventually left the Musain or picked up a better seat to drink and forget what had been talked about during their meeting. Enjolras put his papers on order and Combeferre approached him with a taciturn look. He took of his glasses to rub his eyes, put it again, and touched Enjolras' shoulder. “Won't you stay for a glass of wine? It's been a while since we don't talk.”

Enjolras blinked his eyes. “We talk almost everyday.”

“Not in private.”

“Ah.” He knew what he meant. “I was going to head home, tomorrow I have class at first hour sharp and I would like to have dinner and sleep.”

“Can I walk you home?”

Enjolras chuckled. “I'm not an innocent maiden you have to walk home, Combeferre.”

“I know most that anyone that you are capable of being terrible, but I'll take it as a chance to talk. I haven't got any plans.”

“As you will.”

Enjolras followed Combeferre downstairs and left the Musain side by side.

“How are you?”

“I'm not contempt with the last few meetings as you well know. Feuilly has been absent and I always need his arguments and his point of view, coming from where he comes. I'm not angry at him, but at his employer, it's not his fault. The thing is that our latest discussions have been about the factories and the condition of the workers and he is the only one of us who has any experience. Quoting Fourier is useless if we don't know about the _praxis..._ ”

“Moreover,” added Combeferre, “he always brings those older men who work in the factory with him. They won't come on their own, they don't trust us.”

“Don't look at me like that, it's not my fault that my father is a lawyer and I have more money than then. I'd give them to then if I could.”

“That's admirable, but at the same time none would listen to you if you were a nobody. A curse and a blessing. We have to know our privileges and make good with what we have. We don't have any other choice.”

Enjolras heaved a sigh. “And it's not only that... I see that barely anyone speaks against me or tell me their opinion. I don't like talking all the time, I'm not the chief.”

“We are a young group, don't fret. If you believe in us, what will come will come.”

“You believe too much in me. I want to do what's right, just that. I can't settle.”

Combeferre nodded and understood that Enjolras was just not in the mood. Prouvaire had told him that morning about the incident with a stranger man but he hoped he'd tell him when his mind was clear and less tired.

They walked together until the bassin de l'arsenal and Combeferre dissapeared. Enjolras didn't even realise where he was, alone, until he walked past a pair of men. He started walking faster and he noticed they were following him.

“Hey, blondie, do you happen to have some coin? Or want to invite us and have fun?” They finally spoke.

“Go elsewhere, I haven't got money and you two citizens should busy yourselves in some other way, rather than waiting for someone to pass in front of you to steal from them.” Enjolras stopped and faced the scruffy men.

“We didn't say anything about stealing, but if you insist.”

Enjolras put his papers on the ground, raised his fists and put them in front of his face. One of the men run behind him and Enjolras turned and punched him in the cheek and ducked as soon as the other man came. He stepped back waiting for the revenge. The hurt man cursed him and his friend showed Enjolras a pocket knife. The man jumped and Enjolras dodged him, grabbed the arm with the knife and stroke his elbow. He produced a small scream but Enjolras knew he hadn't enough strength for street fighting and the man punched Enjolras in the kidney, which made him fall. He picked up the knife and knelt next to Enjolras.

“Give us the money, be a good boy.”

Both Enjolras and the man looked behind them and saw the thief's companion falling flat to the floor and another man touching his forehead. “Your friend has a hard head, but nothing a headbutt can't beat. Now, would you please leave?”

Enjolras couldn't believe his eyes. It was Grantaire, with the hand on the pommel on his rapier just like he saw him that same morning, but this time he seemed ready to unsheathe it and his mouth as a thin line.

“And who the fuck are you?”

“'Sti francesi ca no si tacciono, porco Dio...” Grantaire sounded comically exasperated. “I'm the angel of death, leave my friend alone if you don't want to be full of holes. In the bad way.”

The thief looked at Grantaire, then at Enjolras and then run off insulting the swordsman roundly. Grantaire gave him the forearm jerk and yelled something in italian. He turned to Enjolras, who was already up picking up his messed up papers.

“We meet again.”

“Why are you here? Were you following me?”

“I was waiting for somebody but they didn't turn up. You got yourself into a fight and even if I recognise you were doing pretty well,” he clicked his tongue, “I had to take this chance to meet you again, I have a debt.”

“You've saved me,” he said with sarcasm, “it's paid”.

“No, I helped you voluntarily. It would be paid if you had ordered me to do it.”

“Alright, Grantaire. Thank you, really. I... This incident was horrible but I must be on my way.”

“But you are hurt.”

“Nothing out of the ordinary, I assure you. I've been hurt worse fighting against the royalists.”

“A revolutionary?”

Enjolras lifted one eyebrow. “What of it? Trying to make the world better.”

Grantaire licked his lips. “I guess, if you are into that sort of thing.”

“Aren't you for democracy and freedom?”

“Yeah, aren't we all? You are still hurt, I insist. As I said this morning, you seem like a martyr but dying by the river is too common, find a better and more epic place to die or let me help you.”

“Is this a excuse to come into my house again?”

“Don't be lewd, monsieur. I just want to stab you when we are not in public and steal all your jewels.”

Enjolras brought his hand to his bleeding nose. “My clothes are getting all bloody indeed. Come, I wanted to say something to you.”

“Already trusting a filthy mercenary? What will they say, Enjolras.”

Enjolras grabbed him by the arm and soon they were in his house. The butler opened the door and widened his eyes at the sight of Grantaire.

“Monsieur, your parents are home,” he said with a worried expression.

“Oh – Well, don't worry. I'll make up something.”

“Something's wrong?”

A muscle in Enjolras' jaw twitched. “Everything's okay. Just go along with what I say.”

“Ah, I can relate to the feeling. Me and my father...”

“Shhh!”

Grantaire made the motion of zipping his mouth and followed with a smug on his face. He didn't remember this part of Enjolras' house from the morning since it was the front part, the _noble_ part of it. He had served in houses like that before, in Italy, but it didn't feel the same. There were candles everywhere, mirrors and plants, the usual decoration. The doors were tall, made of dark mahogany with golden details.

“You sure are a lucky man,” he mumbled.

Enjolras told him to wait a second and entered a room. Grantaire peeked and saw a elder couple wearing silk robes, very elegant and _uptight_ faces. The parents. The expression in Enjolras was nothing like theirs. Not that he knew Enjolras from long but he looked 'less corrupt' he'd say. Purer, brighter. Enjolras asked them how they were and if they had enjoyed their day. They reproached him, his aspect and his bloody nose.

“Enter, Grantaire.”

“Like in a Shakespeare tragedy I enter then. Goodnight, monsieur, madame.”

“Who is this...” asked Enjolras' father, standing up.

“He is the reason I'm here.”

“I was just passing by and your son was fighting two thieves, admirably I must say, but since I'm an experienced fighter I lent him a hand. Nothing exaggerated.”

Enjolras' mother looked uncomfortable. “What do you mean when you say you are an experienced fighter, monsieur...”

“Ezio Grantaire, madame.” He bowed. “I'm a swordsman, that's my job. I also use pistols but less often, I'm nostalgic and I prefer my weapons sharp.”

The elder couple exchanged looks. “How lucky was our son to stumble upon you, _signore Grantaire_.”

“Then you have recognised my accent, sir. Here I wish I could pass as a frenchman.”

“Well, if you excuse us, father, I've got to fix my nose.”

“And why is your friend here?”

“I've got to talk with him. Goodnight to you both.”

Grantaire said his goodbyes as well and followed Enjolras to his room. Enjolras put some cotton on his nose and sat down on the bench at the feet of his bed.

 

They had met two days in a row in different violent situations and Enjolras wondered if that is how his life was always and if the lives of his acquaintances were always in danger. Grantaire told him not to worry, it was just the bassin de l'arsenal, which was a place too dangerous to walk alone at night.

“I'll try to avoid that place from now on and warn people alright. But why were you there then?”

“Danger is my job, Enjolras. If you insist, I thought the spaniards that attacked me last night would pass by tonight too.”

Enjolras kept quiet. “Well then. They stole all the money I had plus the money I had won from them playing cards. They were angry – well of course, they are spanish – and they came for me. Don't worry, I'll find a way to finish them... Or since you are glaring at me, maybe I'll find a job.”

“Sounds better, Grantaire.”

Grantaire then bent and touched Enjolras' forehead with his thumb. Enjolras jumped at the touch of his calloused but _too gentle_ hands. “You know your forehead is swollen? It looks bad.”

“Oh, really?” He walked up to the mirror. He was far from being vain but he wanted to avoid questions by his friends and classmates. He saw Grantaire reflecting in the mirror, behind him with his hands on his hips, looking between amused and worried. “I'll sleep it off and cover it with powder or something. Thank you, again.”

“You are welcome.” He grabbed his sword that he had put on the bed. “I don't want to intrude more, I'll leave. No, don't worry. I know my way out of here.”

“Wait, Grantaire. I know what you could do to pay me...”

Grantaire's eyes glistened. “Anything.”

“Mmm, you could come to Les Amis' meetings. We are a group, people my age mostly, students, but there are workers and all of kind of people. We are a small group really, but you could come and see if you are interested.”

“And what do you do?”

“We discuss politics. See, we are against Napóleon and...”

“Politics.” He grimaced. “Where and when?”

“The bar is called the Musain, ask around if you get lost, thirty minutes from the bassin. At dusk usually.”

“See you.”

Grantaire closed the door behind him and Enjolras dozed off in two minutes aproximately.

* * *

The next days Enjolras put his mother's powder on his forehead and went to class. It was a normal day in law school, debating with teachers and invalidating their points without making them notice it – because he didn't want to be expelled, – talking to Bahorel, Lesgle and Courfeyrac and eventually waiting for the night to arrive to head to the Musain.

Grantaire didn't turn up as expected. Why did he want him to be there in the first place? Maybe so the man didn't feel like he owed him anything, but still it was a chance to show him that there is another world that doesn't involve harassing people for money and such. Maybe it was another crusade for Enjolras.

The week passed and nothing out of the ordinary happened. On Sunday he rose from bed, woken up by the sound of the church bells. He left his room with his nightshirt on, knowing that his parents would be attending mass.

“Goodmorning sir,” greeted Chantal.

“Goodmorning. Are my parents in mass?”

“Not your father, he is in the garden with...”

Enjolras was surprised and went to the kitchen, which was next to the garden.

“I haven't seen such swordmanship since... God knows when! Come on!” It was his father's voice. Enjolras stepped into the garden and saw the last person he expected to see there. It was Grantire and he was shirtless, wearing brown leather pants and his boots, waving a thin sword left and right, curving his back and avoiding a invisible enemy, poking him with the sword and standing fierce and graceful. Enjolras stared deadpan until the men noticed him.

“Good morning, Enjolras.” Greeted Grantaire, walking to him and using his sword as a cane. He could see the sweat run down his chest hair between his pectorals and... He was staring again. “How are you?”

“Father?” Enjolras turned to his parent.

“We have a new member of the family.”

* * *

As it turns out, Enjorlas' father had hired Grantaire as his own personal guard. He payed him to harass, persecute, kill, bribe. Both men knew Enjolras' thoughts on the matter. Enjolras didn't have a good relationship with his father, they were too different. And now he gave him an excuse to finally judge Grantaire.

 


	3. Summary

Sorry, I can't write the next chapter(s), but I won't let you hanging with what will happen. Enjolras mostly avoids Grantaire, one day he finds him in his library and they start arguing and who, somebody who can argument against him. Grantaire turns up and the Musain, gets drunk, flirts with Prouvaire. Some days later, Enjolras asks Grantaire to teach him the sword - which is a plottwist because he hates guns. Grantaire turns up more often at the Musain, almost everyday, and always talks back to Enjolras, but Enjolras thinks it's exciting. In the last chapter Enjolras is looking for Grantaire to ask for something, and he finds his drawings. Grantaire has drawn him and he looks beautiful. Grantaire enters, then they talk feelings, then Enjolras says close the door and Grantaire's eyes widen and rushes to close the door and then kisses Enjolras ohsopassionatedly and Enjolras is like since when did you want to do that. And Grantaire just... Fucks him and they are happy forever after ~~until that summer of 1832.~~

Enjolras finds Grantaire pretty sexy shirtless and swinging his sword.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Give me ideas, feedback and kudos!


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